Friend

You are invited to rest awhile. I am here waiting arms outstretched all alone on this cold concrete facing west surrounded only by coreopsis blooming in vibrant school colors. As the whisper of sugar maples fills the air and the athletic field appears near the horizon, the Westminster chimes are heard from the college chapel signifying the passage of time. Friend, spend a few moments with me. You will experience moments of tranquility, many beautiful sunsets, memories of a lifetime.

Dennis Moore

The Farmer by Madaline Paulsen Aquamarine by Kaya Young Bleeding Bud by Kaya Young The Calls Made at Night by Rachel Bieker Aquamarine by Kaya Young Bleeding Bud by Kaya Young The Calls Made at Night by Rachel Bieker

The Encounter by Alyssa Craven Christmas Letters by Beverly Shelgren Lauderdale The Farmer by Madaline Paulsen Aquamarine by Kaya Young Bleeding Bud by Kaya Young The Calls Made at Night by Rachel Bieker The Encounter by Alyssa Craven Christmas Letters by Beverly Shelgren LauThe Farmer by Madaline Paulsen Aquamarine by Kaya Young Bleeding Bud by Kaya Young The Calls Made at Night by Rachel BiekerThe Encounter by Alyssa Craven Christmas Letters by Beverly Shelgren LauThe Farmer by Madaline Paulsen Aquamarine by Kaya Young Bleeding Bud by Kaya Young The Calls Made at Night by Rachel Bieker The Encounter by Alyssa CravenChristmas Letters by Beverly Shelgren LauderdaleThe Farmer by Madaline PaulsenAquamarine by Kaya YoungBleeding Bud by Kaya YoungThe Calls Made at Night by Rachel Bieker The Encounter by Alyssa Craven Christmas Letters by Beverly Shelgren Lauderdale The Farmer by Madaline Paulsen Aquamarine by Kaya Young

The Calls Made at Night by Rachel Bieker

The Encounter by Alyssa Craven Christmas Letters by Beverly Shelgren Lauderdale The Farmer by Madaline Paulsen Aquamarine by Kaya Young

Fiction

The Encounter.....................61 Christmas Letters.................65 The Farmer........................72 Bleeding Bud......................74 Aquamarine........................75 The Calls Made at Night...........76 Christmas Letters by Beverly Shelgren Lauderdale The Farmer by Madaline PaulsenAquamarine by Kaya YoungBleeding Bud by Kaya YoungThe Calls Made at Night by Rachel Bieker

The Encounter by Alyssa CravenThe Encounter by Alyssa Craven

The Encounter by Alyssa Craven The Encounter by Alyssa Craven The Encounter by Alyssa Craven The Encounter by Alyssa Craven The Encounter by Alyssa Craven

The Encounter

Alyssa Craven

I pick up a tub of Anderson Erickson garlic chip dip from the cold section of the grocery store and smile to myself. Holding the tub brings back memories of hanging out at my childhood home and eating tons of the stuff. Things were simpler back then. I haven’t tasted it since I moved away from Iowa. I wonder if it’s still as good as I remember. I’m contemplating whether or not to buy the dip when I am suddenly engulfed in a hug from someone behind me. “Oh my God, Emily! I can’t believe it’s really you.” The woman lets me out of her embrace and I can finally see her face. Her blond hair sweeps past her shoulders and sits on her simple winter jacket. Her face is accompanied by a signature smile that I instantly recognize. “Is that you, Jessica? I haven’t seen you since high school.” “Of course it’s me, silly,” Jessica says as she sweeps her hair behind her shoulders. “What are you doing back here in Iowa?” “My father’s not in the best of health,” I state as I put the dip in the top part of my shopping cart. “I came home for Christmas to visit him. It’s been weird being back here after living in New York Ci—” “Oh, Emily, I am so sorry to hear that, Jessica says as she interrupts me. “What’s wrong with him?” “He had a stroke. He’s not doing the best right now.” “That must be terrible to have to go through. Going through situations like that sucks. I hope he gets better soon.” “Yeah, me too.” There is an uncomfortable moment of silence between the two of us. I can tell that Jessica feels uncomfortable. “Being an adult sucks,” Jessica blurts out. “Things were so much simpler when we were kids. We had so much less to worry about. Things that were a big deal back then seem so small in comparison to today’s problems. Do you remember all those silly games we used to play?” I smile at memories that enter my brain. “How could I forget our adventures on the great sea as pirates. We found the great treasure of Blackbeard.” “Oh my gosh, I remember that,” Jessica replies as she starts to laugh. “We dug so many holes in my backyard. My mom was so mad. It took forever for the grass to grow back again.” “We used to spend all our summers in the field behind your trailer home.” “Yeah,” Jessica says as she starts looking uncomfortable again. “And all

winter in your three-story house.” Jessica glances at the designer handbag sitting in my cart before glancing back at me. “Do you remember that time we had a fight because we both wanted to be princesses in blue dresses?” I say trying to change the subject. “Yes!” Jessica says. “We didn’t talk to each other for a week. They weren’t even real dresses. We were just imagining what color our imaginary dresses were.” “We fought over the stupidest things.” Jessica shakes her head back and forth, laughing. A few people in the store give her the side-eye. “What have you been up to?” I ask. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you,” Jessica says as she holds out her left hand for me to see. On her finger is a huge diamond ring, worth at least half of what I make in a year. “You’re getting married?!” “Yes! Josh proposed to me just a few weeks ago,” Jessica exclaims. “Were waiting to post anything on social media until after I tell the rest of the family at our Christmas party.” “Josh? From high school?” “Yeah,” Jessica says as she begins to twist her hair in her hand. “We got back together a year ago. He’s been really amazing to me. He’s so kind and caring.” “Didn’t he cheat on you our senior year?” “Yeah,” Jessica states as she stares down at her feet. “But he’s changed a lot since then. He apologized a long time ago for what he did. Josh has a new job out at the auto repair shop at the edge of town. He’s really cleaned up his act.” “Why are you dating him again? Let alone marrying him? He was such a jerk in high school. Can a person really change that much?” “Look!” Her head snaps up and she is clearly upset. “You haven’t been back here since you left for that fancy college. You don’t get to judge my fiancé or my decisions.” I am taken back for a moment. Jessica wasn’t one to usually get angry. “Sorry,” Jessica said. “I didn’t mean to go off on you like that, I guess.” She trails off and we stand in silence again. I try to think of something to talk about, but I can’t get anything to come out of my mouth. Finally, I manage to ask, “So how’s work going?” “Good. Actually, I just got promoted to head manager at the restaurant.” “Why are you still working there? You’re so much better than that job.” “Because I didn’t have anywhere else to go! Stop trying to flaunt your life and how much better it is than mine.” I stare at her, stunned at her outburst. “I wasn—”

“Look, Emily,” she sighs and continues. “You got to leave here. Go off to some big city and escape this town, but I’m still here. You can’t judge me for my decisions anymore. You left me here, alone.” “Are you jealous?” “Of course, I’m jealous. We had all these dreams of running away and leaving this dump. Then you went off to college and forgot about your best friend and all the promises you made her. I was left in this small town. I was stuck working as a waitress trying to make ends meet while you were posting photos of you studying in Spain. I didn’t have the luxury of being able to have my parents pay for my college.” “I didn’t mean to upset you.” “Look, I’m happy with my life and with Josh. I’ve changed a lot since high school. I’ve had to step up and be independent. You may not have to worry about how to pay for food and rent, but I do. You don’t understand what Josh and I had to go through after high school. He may not be the fairy tale prince that I was looking for, but he loves me, and understands the struggles that I had to go through.” “I didn’t realize you felt that I had more than you,” I say. “No, you didn’t mean to, but you did. I didn’t get have the same privileges that you did.” Jessica turns away from me, leaving me in the cold section in a state of shock. I didn’t realize that she was that mad at me. I pick up the container of dip in my hands and stare at it for a minute. I slowly put it back on the shelf where I found it and head to the checkout line. My thoughts are jumbled and messy as I head back to my childhood home. I wasn’t really that privileged, was I? I always thought of my family as middle class. We didn’t live in a mansion with a giant pool or anything. A lot of the things I asked for as a kid I didn’t end up getting. My parents forced me to get a parttime job when I was sixteen so I could start paying for my own stuff. Sure, we got to go on trips and stuff, but I never thought of us as privileged. Jessica’s life was different than mine, I guess. Her parents were divorced when she was a kid. She and her siblings ended up living with her mom. I pull into the driveway of my parents’ home and park next to the house. I open the back of my car and manage to carry all the groceries from the car to inside in one go. I’m struggling with trying to close the front door while not dropping anything when my mom appears and takes one of the bags of groceries. “Here, let me help you with that,” she says. “How many times do I have to tell you that making multiple trips to carry the groceries in won’t kill you?” “You know I much rather just do it all in one go.” She rolls her eyes at me and starts to walk towards the kitchen. I follow behind her. “You’ll never guess who I saw at the grocery store today,” I say.

“Who?” Mom says as she places the bags on the kitchen counter. “Jessica.” “Jessica? I haven’t heard that name since you graduated high school. She was such a sweet girl. How is she doing?” “She’s doing alright. Actually, she’s engaged to Josh.” “Josh Taylor?” “Yep.” “Huh,” says Mom. “Wouldn’t have guessed that.” We start putting the food into the fridge. “Mom? Would you consider us better off than Jessica’s family was?” “Why are you asking me that?” Mom says as she closes the fridge and turns towards me. “Jessica and I kind of had an argument. She was upset because she felt that had more privilege than she did growing up.” “You know that Jessica didn’t have it easy growing up. Her father left that family and forced that poor mother to work incredibly hard to put food on the table. Why do you think we always asked Jessica to eat with us or offered to pay for her things you guys did together?” “I guess I just didn’t really think about it that much as a kid. I mean I knew that we were better off than her family was, but I thought that they were doing fine as well. I don’t remember Jessica ever struggling.” “Honey, we gave you everything as a kid. We paid for your education, your car. We could afford music lessons and so forth. Now you’re off in New York making more money in a year than I ever did in my lifetime. It’s no surprise that Jessica is jealous. She’s still working at that dump of a restaurant. I wonder what that girl would have done if she had been able to go to college. Jessica was such a smart kid.” I nod and leave the conversation at that. My mom moves back to the living room and I am left standing by myself in the kitchen. I glance at photos hanging up on the wall, and my eyes land on the one where Jessica and I are about seven or eight. My mother never takes down photos once she puts them up. I take it down to see it in better light. We are sitting on the front porch of my house side by side. We both have the biggest smiles on our faces. I have probably looked at the photo a hundred times, but this time I notice something new. I am wearing brand-new clothes, fresh off the rack. Jessica’s are somewhat worn, baggy. I remember now her two older brothers. I feel the weight of our differences back at the supermarket as I hang the picture back on the wall, the rift clearer now more than ever.

Christmas Letters

Beverly Shelgren Lauderdale

December 13, 1966

Dear Ann, Okay, okay, you’re mad at me and I don’t blame you. You’ve written three times, long, long letters and I loved them although how you can say you enjoy eighth graders is beyond me. All thirteen-year-olds should pack up and move to Samoa or some island. There they can mature and experiment with each other without adults. “Ah, hah, experiment,” I hear your voice, “sounds sexy.” Too true, for I have little but sexy ideas. Six months of marriage and the love making’s fantastic. All right, I won’t rub it in. You’re sitting in that apartment correcting themes—and, for heaven’s sakes, why are you teaching English? There’s never any end to papers. If you’d majored in home ec or phys ed you wouldn’t be stuck with compositions. Now, conspicuously absent in your letters was any mention of males. You must do something about that. Remember from the first week we roomed together, I said, “Ann, you’re designed for marriage, for kids.” So, get busy.

As for me, I’m designed if not for marriage, then certainly for sex. God, there I go again-but it’s highly addictive. And I’m cut out for this life. Ready for me to rub in the details? When Brad and I moved to Mill Valley in July, it was like stepping into another world. We bought a three-bedroom house with a view of the bay. Brad commutes to Broadman Engineers in San Francisco. I sleep until ten sometimes (eat your heart out). I play tennis and golf, shop in the city, swim and play bridge with other women of my ilk, and I am happy, happy, happy—except I do miss you. We had four neat college years.

Keep writing and may Santa bring you a MAN. Love, Christy

December 1, 1970 Dear Christy,

All night the wind howled so this morning’s stillness intensifies every sound—the scratch of my ballpoint against the stationery, the sharp swallow when I pause to sip coffee. And I realize anew that I miss the classroom noise particularly at this time of year.

I felt strange when August neared. For four summers when I ripped off the July calendar page, little needles of excitement pricked my stomach, an awareness that only three weeks remained before I’d unlock the door and start with bulletin boards and faculty meetings. I even miss the certain classroom smell (and no snide remarks) and our principal’s routine beginning-of-the-term greeting and. . . but, enough. You’ll decide I don’t like marriage.

I do. Warren’s a very fine person. We held a simple ceremony September first. Yes, I’m sorry you couldn’t come, but I appreciated so much your phone call and realized the importance of attending Brad’s convention at Lake Tahoe. The sound of your laughter brought back days in the dorm, and for a second I wished again that you were sprawled in the other twin bed, lighting a cigarette and asking soul-searching questions: “Will makeup cover this hickey?” “Do you think my right breast droops more than my left one?”

My days now are filled with questions and answers far different. Warren’s farm has 360 acres of corn and soybeans. The house is old and tall and sometimes I feel it contains the spirits of deceased farm wives who scold when I claim tiredness, who scoff when I long to read rather than learn to handle the tractor. Apologies for rambling on so long without commenting on your activities. With more than a trace of envy I followed your South American trip, your club and organization involvement. You inhabit foreign territory. Please continue telling me about it. Greet Brad for me and hug Matthew and Kent (good names for sons). A most Merry Christmas, Love, Ann

December 25, 1971 Dear Ann, This card will arrive late, but maybe you’ll accept my excuse. I’m lying in a hospital bed (bid for sympathy, there; crease your forehead and frown with worry), because twenty-four hours ago, I gave birth to Holly. Now erase the frown and groan, “Matthew and Kent were quality names, but Holly?” Hear my answer, “Look, kiddo, Brad had suggested all manner of cutsie things. Star. Merry. Berry.” On second thought Holly sounds pretty good, doesn’t it? She weighed seven pounds, has Brad’s black hair, and she’ll be the last. I don’t want stretch marks. Forever I’d like to be eighteen or nineteen, twenty or twenty-one. Weren’t those free years? Hey, remember when I was crazy over that theological student and you said he appealed to me because he was conservative, moral and a challenge? Oh, Ann, you were right. You were

right so often, even about—oh, skip it.

Moving right along, I’ll list what else 1971 brought me: a winning bridge tournament, a vacation in Spain, and five additional pounds (excluding pregnancy weight) and that means weighing in stark naked. Ick. Ann, write me. Belated Jingle Bells, etc. Christy

December 3, 1975 Dear Christy, For half an hour I’ve been sitting here. My mind’s blank and almost mesmerized I watch snowflakes form abstract designs along the window ledges—and glancing beyond— upon the fence rows and bare tree branches. If I could sketch, I’d draw the stark beauty of bare limbs angled against gray sky, a sky perpetually moody. But, I’m not an artist and obviously am regressing in my attempts at imagery. What I am is farm wife, winner of two county fair blue ribbons for applesauce and beets. I wish I could see your expression as you read this. You’re laughing, aren’t you, about the awards? Part of me laughs, too, but it’s hollow. How far I’ve not come since graduation. In those nine years you’ve traveled, met fascinating people, borne three children, have encountered places and situations beyond my ability to imagine. Do I sound envious? It’s simply that I feel so far removed from what you are today and our promised futures in the dorm. My life lies within a tiny ring in which I prepare three meals a day and weed the garden, take the grain truck to the elevator, walk the beans, can, and bake. Yet, it’s not bleak. I love my taut muscles and summer tan, and the slice of the harrow’s blade as it releases earth’s hidden scent. And I value the nearby farm women who come in any emergency. But, I cannot talk to them. Sometimes after Warren sleeps, I sit in my favorite chair, a plaid rocker, and read aloud. I plug my ears against the moaning wind and pretend isolation does not cover me. The storm door’s opening and I hear Warren’s boots clumping across the back porch. He’ll want coffee and hot rolls. I’m afraid to reread these lines, afraid they dramatize my self pity, so I’m cramming this letter into the card. It really does come with love and season’s greetings. Ann

Dear Ann, On this heavenly, heavenly day when the sun’s shining and everything’s clear, I’m overflowing with clarity. Leave Warren and that damned farm. Freely I give that advice, because Brad and I are divorcing.

During the last year of our stint in Turkey, I had an affair—no, more than an affair, something all consuming. Doug, another engineer for Broadman, and I tried to be discreet, but— Some of those bitchy women (and, believe me, when you’re surrounded with catty executive wives, bitchiness dominates) assured me my “fling” was due to boredom. They should talk. It provided them with hours of juicy speculation, particularly because Doug’s wife didn’t take it well at all. She milked the role of injured party to the hilt, even faked an attempted suicide. And Brad? He played understanding husband using such phrases as “identity crisis” and “early menopause.”

“Baby, not at thirty-three,” I told him.

Then, he pulled the rationalization line, the think-of-the-children bit. So, okay, I agreed to give Brad another try, but two weeks after leaving Turkey I’d had enough of his smugness in “taking me back.” I phoned Doug, who is still overseas, and he’s leaving his wife. When he returns to California, we’ll be married. Ann, if I call, will you come stand up with me? I’ll pay your plane fare. At the risk of sounding sappy, I’ve never had another woman friend with whom I’ve been as close. Now as for men—that’s another story. Have a glorious holiday. Christy

December 18, 1980 Dear Christy, No tree has ever been as fresh, as green as ours this year. Even Michael at three months smiles at the silver ornaments and responds when we plug in the Christmas lights. I sound crazy, but becoming a mother at thirty-five, after I’d long ago decided we’d never be parents, has changed me. Don’t give me any of your wisecracks about did I change partners? No, I remain the picture of fidelity, and if you checked out the other farmers and studied what’s available in the nearest town, you would by choice settle for monogamy. With Michael the farm seems more than bearable. Suddenly it’s home and I visualize handing it on to Michael’s children as Warren’s parents willed it to him after the preceding generation handed it to them. All at once this house is precious, a cocoon in which Michael can grow roots, for now, for always, I hope. I see the rhythm of the seasons more clearly and bless this isolation. In such seclusion people develop inner selves, inner strength. I find that strength in our neighbors and in Warren. With clearer vision I survey the years he’s tolerated, without complaint, a wife who effected but partial terms with him and his society, who protested lack of culture and

felt herself above church socials. Activities here, people here, have a goodness, a richness to which I’ve been blind. Michael’s birth has afforded me keener perception. Am so looking forward to your yearly letter. To your best Christmas, Ann

12/23/85 Hi Ann, Greetings from a “career woman” who thinks it’s the pits, especially when “career woman” equals secretary, or more correctly, “office manager.” But, good lord, I couldn’t find a job. My liberal arts degree didn’t cut it beside these talented young women with skills. I had to attend night school with welfare mothers and some weirdos to take basic business courses. My advice: hold on to Warren and that farm. Money’s never looked so good to me. Oh, sure, Brad pays decent child support, but Matt and Kent are in junior high (braces, sports, medical bills—Kent broke his ankle in football—clothes, records, etc.) so his check’s not enough. And Brad doesn’t give me money for Holly as she lives with him and his new wife, a real goodie-two shoes. It hurt when Holly chose to move in with them, but it was the right decision for everyone. I’ve always related better to the boys.

Through all this you’re wondering about old what’s-his-name, that lover in Turkey. To haul out a cliché, when push came to shove, Doug shoved me and kept wifie. Not that I’ve been lonely. Contrary to reports, neat men runneth over in L.A., but not the marrying type, nor necessarily single ones. That’s fine on the one hand since, cliche number two, variety is the spice of life. Plus, I would hate to saddle anyone with teenagers. (I’m still big on putting them on islands.) However, I detest working and hate scrimping. I’d be the perfect kept woman.

For awhile the kids and I shared a house with another divorcee and her eight-yearold son. A bad scene. The boys and I left shortly after I bailed her out of jail for possession of pot, and after I found Kent high. Sometimes now I envy you, Ann, all happy and safe Tonight, though, there’s a marvelous singles party and simply the anticipation of it reminds me that while I long for safety and money, there’s a hell of a lot to be said for freedom and new bods. Happy Christmas, Merry New Year, Christy

January 2, 1985 Dear Christy,

I didn’t mail any Christmas cards. Michael died November 30. Ann

Dec. 13, 1987

Dear Ann, Notice please the return address on this envelope. Texas! And I’ve decided since I’m getting closer to that farm of yours that I’ll come for a visit next summer. Let’s make it June and I’ll bring my husband. Oh, my, my Christy, what a clever way to introduce Max.

Three weeks ago, on the spur of the moment, he and I flew to Las Vegas. Ann, those wedding chapels are incredible. When the owner peered at me out of bloodshot eyes, he figured I’d passed the virginal stage, so he dug out a wilted blue veil. Now you know nothing about Max, and I don’t know tons. I met him at a friend’s party in October. Divorced, fifty-six, he has two grown children, off somewhere, so no problem from that quarter, and his permanent home is Texas, like in oil. No, really, he’s a great man with good luck and brains, who made money and fell in love with me. He likes Matt and Kent, but they’ve decided they’re Californians, so currently they’ve joined Brad and his menagerie. It seems a little unreal to be without children. Sorry, Ann, that was thoughtless. Yet, I feel you’re all right. I even felt that when I phoned after getting news of Michael’s death. Your voice sounded, well, strong. Maybe proof you’ve incorporated that special strength you admire around you? Should I have come then? I wanted to and thought about it the next summer and the next. This summer I will. How ridiculous! Twenty-one years since we’ve been together. Wish me luck in this second chapter. We’re going to France in March on an extended business trip, which is why I’m suggesting June for our reunion. We’ll celebrate Christmas then. Christy

December 5, 1988 Dear Christy, I hope you’re impressed with this silk screen Christmas card. I take silk screening on Monday evenings. On Tuesday from seven to ten p.m. I’m enrolled in sewing; on Wednesday it’s photography. Great Books meets Thursday nights. (Yes, we have a group of eight.) The classes are all adult ed which means I drive thirty miles each time, but they’re worth it. I’ve even driven as far as the university for some weekend seminars. Other weekends I volunteer as a pink lady at the nearest community hospital. By the phone I’ve posted a big calendar. I live according to what’s written in the slots. The only way Warren knows where I am is to check that. He’s content evenings to watch television. We bought a large set. Last summer we acquired the adjoining farm after the owners retired. During good weather, Warren’s busy round the clock at both places.

I’m sorry your plans fell through last summer. I’ve become an expert bread maker and could have sent some loaves home with you. However, I understand that your trip to Iran with Max was essential. If ever you’re able to come, we have plenty of room. The house is big. Sorry, also, that your kids spent the summer in Hawaii and that you didn’t get to see them. Is Brad living there now? Perhaps you’ll have them for Christmas this year.

On the tenth we fly to Florida to spend the holidays with Warren’s invalid aunt. All best, Ann

Dec. 10, 1991 Dear Ann,

Did you receive the college announcement about our twenty-fifth reunion next spring? For a wild moment I thought that I’d go and impress everyone. I’d wear my big diamond and show off my face (no wrinkles courtesy of some delicate little tucks). However, I’ve not kept in touch with anyone except you, and I don’t truly care to impress old classmates. After thinking further, I realized it’s not important that I see you. We’ve established something special in our letters that a face-to-face meeting might destroy or change. What’s new with me? Since Max’s death, not too much. I enjoy tennis, belong to the garden club, attend jazzercise, golf, give excellent cocktail parties and have read three books this year.

As far as the kids, well—Matt’s working (sort of) in a hardware store and is engaged. I’ve never met the girl, but he sent me a picture. She looks steady. By that I mean, she wears glasses. (Have studies ever been done on that, correlating glasses and stability?) Maybe she’ll be a good influence as his driver’s license has been suspended. Kent’s in college. I think this week the major’s philosophy. Holly’s married and pregnant. Ouch, that hurts. The specter of Grandmother sits unkindly upon these youthful shoulders. Brad and his wife attended the ceremony (they can be the grandparents then). It was a private one because Holly was several months along.

Now a “good news” flash. My Christmas present is a roommate/housemate to liven up these twelve rooms. His name is Paul, he’s thirty-four, gives superb massages, and— Until next year, Your friend, Christy

The Farmer

Madaline Paulsen

Every morning the farmer wakes up at dawn and runs downstairs to put on the coffee. After a quick shower, he gets dressed for the day ahead. He wears an old pair of patched blue jeans, a thick long-sleeve, a warm pair of socks, a worn-in grey coat, a red stocking cap, and his trusty winter boots. He pours a mug of coffee for himself and a travel mug for his wife. He makes sure his little dog has food and water for the day. He turns on the news, finishes his first cup of coffee, pours himself another, and heads outside with his little dog. It’s a cold and snowy day today. The farmer lets his big dog out to run around with his little dog. The air is chilly and he pulls his coat tighter around his body. The steam from his coffee is the only warmth he can feel. When the farmer reaches his shed, he starts his truck to warm it up. He makes sure the big dog has food and water for the day, and then he gets into his truck and heads to the field to chore. The snow is fresh and the tracks from his truck will take you right where he stops. He checks his cattle and feeds them. Around mid-morning, he comes back home to have his final cup of coffee. This one will be a little watered down, but that’s alright. His daughter is awake now. She always steals his coffee. Maybe he can talk her into baking some cherry turnovers. But for the time being, there is work to do. Maybe he’ll sit down in his office and go over some figures. Taxes, seed prices, fertilizer, lease agreements… there is plenty to do. After some time, he glances at the clock. Is it lunchtime already? he thinks. A sandwich sounds good. Maybe some leftovers from last night’s supper. Something warm, of course, would be preferable. Maybe he’ll see what his daughter is up to. She’s having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Sissssterrrr . . . I want a peanut butter and jelly,” he sings. “I bet you can make it yourself!” she says. Peanut butter and jelly for lunch. The little dog is taking a nap. It’s too cold for her to stay outside for long. Hmmm . . . a nap sounds nice. Maybe he’ll put on his comfy pants and lay down in the chair for a little bit. Snow starts to fall again around two in the afternoon. Today is a good day for a bowl of chili. Do we have an onion? he thinks. He looks out the window and watches the flakes drift

down to the ground. Brrr… it’s too cold to work today. But there aren’t many days off for a farmer. He heads back to the shed after his nap. He needs to check on the big dog. The big dog is probably taking a nap, too. Or perhaps he’s barking at something that no one can see but him. It’s typically the latter… but today he is snuggled up in his bed underneath an old blanket. His dad stops by . . . they’ll chat for a while. He’ll fix up some equipment. I think it’s time for a beer. Before he knows it, the sun is going down. It’s time to check on the chili. Three’s Company is on TV tonight. His daughter threw some cornbread in the oven. He’ll just run upstairs to shower (again) really quick so he’s warmed up and ready for bed before he eats. After dinner, it’s bedtime. He’ll let the little dog sleep at his feet . . . but don’t tell anyone I told you.

The Farmer by Madaline Paulsen

The Farmer by Madaline Paulsen

The Farmer by Madaline Paulsen

The Farmer by Madaline Paulsen

The Farmer by Madaline Paulsen

Bleeding Bud

Kaya Young

There was a clearing in the grove of towering sycamore trees. Wide, gnarled, brown trunks stood side by side with their arms the color of glinting bone. As the sun rose higher, the bone branches blazed and the silver leaves shuddered, aflame with light. The clearing seemed to stir as pockets of light shifted, covered by feverish silhouettes. A small bud opened and the trees stilled, only a hushed murmur of the wind remained. The pale petals were curled up in a small oval, just barely open. The petals were veined with dark purple branching vessels. A small opening faced the sky and the oval petals parted, overlapping edges leaving a pointed star. All remained still as the sun drooped over the horizon. It cast its orange light onto the new bud. The bud seemed to burn as a bright, young thing does in the dying light. Its glow cast each petal’s thin creases into the deepest shadow. Days tuned to dusk, the sun sinking, staggering, falling but always rising, and the bud slowly unfurled beneath its volatile light. The curled, white petals drank the sunlight and the moonlight, remaining cupped protectively around the center. Sometimes they quivered slightly when there was no wind. At times it seemed light was drawn there. One night, the sycamore trees tried to catch the sun as it lurched towards the horizon. The sunset seemed jagged and the sky was tinged pink. The leaves’ silver undersides shone fiercely as they tossed their heads in the rising wind. Their rustling began as a whisper and swelled to a cacophony of roaring light. In that moment, the bud opened. In one smooth motion the petals unfurled, dark, iris veins spilling from the flower. There in the center of the network of veins, a pale body lay curled in a ball. The head was bowed, and a thick vine ebbed away into its skull. Small shoulder blades crested with moss jutted outwards as if to escape from the back. It seemed to cling to the bosom of the flower, its long fingers tangled in the stamen. When the light touched its pale skin it seemed to breathe softly, almost stirring. The knees pressed up against the face tinged darker, bruised as they squashed the cheeks inwards. With each sunset and sunrise, it changed color the way a leaf does, slowly relinquishing a heady mix of hues, in curving lines and splotches. It only moves in the faint breath of twilight, slowly reaching deft tendrils into the fertile soil. There it remains huddled on the forest floor surrounded by bleeding petals. Someday the petals will fall away, and it will watch the sun slay the bright pinpricks of the dark.

Aquamarine

Kaya Young

I peeled back the silver film of a contact container and the clear liquid trembled, threatening to spill. I poured the solution over my cupped palm. As the shining liquid pooled, the near invisible cup fell from the lip of the plastic container. A sad fish only, folded in on itself. Fragile and awkward, still shining as if made of water, the folded blob sat on the lines of my palm. I poked it gently trying to make it pop right side out. It squirmed. I reflexively thrust it away from my face. No movement. I slowly moved my hand closer and squinted at the contact. With one forced breath I poked the contact again. A small, clear tendril reached out briefly catching the pale light. It seemed desperate, drowning. I felt stricken and watched it pulse with a fragile heartbeat. The small palpitations thudded, uneven, and frantic against my hand. I quickly poured contact solution into a narrow glass and flung the quivering creature in. In the glass a wide bubble billowed outwards and an array of tentacles unfurled, twisting inquisitively against the glass. It was nearly invisible, but I could make out the silhouette of trapped air bubbles that clung to its skin. Swaying back and forth the tiny jellyfish glinted in the strange, sharp light.

The Calls Made at Night

Rachel Bieker

The ringing of the phone pulls me from sleep. Not my cell phone. It’s never that one. This is a violent, blaring sound compared to the soft chimes I set on my own device. I let the ring go on one, two more times. My body is heavy from the tendrils of sleep, making it difficult to initiate movement. Come on, El. Pick it up. I roll onto my side, and my fingers blindly seek the handset. I remove it from the cradle, nestling it to my ear. I wait. “Uh, is someone there?” “Hhhmmm.”

“Oh, good! At first, I thought I…um, never mind.” Sometimes all they need is acknowledgement that there is, in fact, someone on the other end. There is someone listening rather than just a void. One time, after a mere grunt, a woman spilled her own confessions like rain through a roof gutter. A different caller asked me to just stay on the line once she confirmed I was present. I don’t know who succumbed first, but when I woke up the next morning, there was only the dial tone. There’s a muffled shuffling, as if the current caller is adjusting his hold on the phone. “So, uh, is it raining where you’re at?” He sounds young. Maybe he’s somewhere in his early twenties. Nerves entangle his words, causing them to quiver. I never know who’s going to be there when I answer the old rotary phone. I had thought maybe they were just random scammers. Not one person has tried to sell me something, asked me to take a survey, or told me that my vehicle insurance has expired. The only consistency is that they always call at night.

My eyes drift open. The red letters of the alarm clock read 2:53 a.m. Keeping the phone nestled to my ear, I turn my gaze towards the window. I’m not going to sit up yet. “All quiet here,” I say. “Yeah,” he replies. “It’s raining buckets here. You’d be soaked just getting to the car. It’s so loud, ‘cause of the lightning.” Another pause. Our silence is a new rhythm. This part takes some practice. Do I wait for them to start talking, or do I prompt them? Sometimes the people will start going off on their own. Other

times they need a little nudge. If I’m wrong with my choice, they might instead clam up and back out of the call entirely. It’s not really my place to decide how they manage this conversation. After all, they are the ones who took the effort to dial. If the call ended, I could submit myself to the quiet of ignorance. Still, if there’s a reason they called, I’d hate to imagine how desperate they were for a voice, a fellow heart, proof that someone is willing to hear them out.

My lips part just as a heavy sigh floats into my ear. “God,” he breathes. “I don’t even know why I called.” The voiced is pinched, caught between tears and suffocation. I let my head sink deeper into the pillow. “We can talk about whatever. Sometimes talking, even if it’s not what’s on your mind, can help. You know?” “I don’t…Everything I’ve got to say feels pretty shitty.”

With some effort my eyes open back up, greeting the darkness looming overhead. The words are anchoring me, hinting towards the reason he called. Some of them get right to it, describing how their life went wrong, the hurdle they can’t jump, the mistake they can’t forgive, or the person tearing them apart. Others take longer to loosen up, not willing to share until the call feels established. Some don’t even state a purpose, rhyme, or reason. “Either way,” I prompt. “It’s up to you.” Twisting myself around again, the spiral cord rides up my arm and rubs against my neck. I’m tempted to move it when he continues. “Sometimes I can’t do it. Not anymore. There are mornings I can’t get out of bed. People tell me to not think about it. Find happier thoughts. But that’s a load of bullshit! If it were that easy, no one would have this problem. If I could turn off my thoughts, I’d hear nothing. Think about nothing. By now, silence feels like a pretty good thing.”

My grip stiffens on the plastic of the handset. “When you say silence, do you mean…” I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence.

“No!” His answer bursts through like a firework. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant! I couldn’t ever off myself. I’m too much of a coward, and I couldn’t do that to my family. I just don’t know how I’m supposed to make things better.” Static tickles my ear before the dial tone switches on. I don’t move for a minute, letting the disconnected call sink in before setting the phone back in its cradle. Will he call back? Did the connection get lost, or did he hang up? Maybe it’s a good thing it ended. We were approaching the part I hate anyway. They want a solution. Some laid out plan or inspiring words that will dissolve the issue entirely. But that’s never how it works, no matter how loud this phone rings. As sleep works to reclaim me, I think of how this all started almost two weeks ago.

My muscles were achy from moving in so many boxes to my new apartment, promising new waves of pain to come tomorrow. Practically dropping the last box, I flinched at how loud the thud echoed through the living room. The floor was a faded ashy grey carpet, no telling what the original shade could have

been. My couch wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, precarious stacks of worn cardboard boxes and totes filling the space.

I started scanning the different boxes, my messy penmanship overly crooked from the side angles. The apartment still smelled of the previous owner, an older gentleman named Mr. Fitz. He was finally forced into a retirement home by his family. This left behind a strange mixture of aromas, from old pages to lingering trails of worn cotton. Maybe it’s just the smell you would expect from most elderly, but I didn’t have any grandparents left to really refer to. The smell wasn’t bad, per se; it was unsettling like skin stretched too tight. It just didn’t smell like home, and I knew one of my candles would help to fix that uneasiness.

I had no organizational system when putting stuff in the room, leaving everything a warped maze of clutter. After the fourth stack of checking labels and randomly peeking into the lids, I gave up. My legs and arms were protesting enough as it was, weighing me down as if gravity had decided to both push and pull.

The sun was setting, spilling deep oranges and crimsons through the windows until they leaked onto the walls. I shuffled down the hallway, the bedroom waiting in glorious dimness. It was comforting compared to the stuffiness that had overtaken the main rooms. Thankfully, my bed wasn’t something I had to wait for. Collapsing onto the mattress, I pulled a pillow and a blanket towards my fetal position. Who needed to make the bed when you could just have a nest of sheets and pillows? I put my cell on top of the nightstand beside my bed. My face sunk deeper into the pillow. Unpacking could wait until tomorrow. Sleep overtook me, submerging me completely as water would. It was a peaceful kind of rest, a welcome oblivion from the activity of life. When a ringing interrupted it, the waking world seemed to crash back down on me. My heart hammered against my chest, the room momentarily disorienting until I remembered where I was. The dark window clearly told me it was the middle of the night, dawn too far away for me to even consider being awake. I instinctively grabbed my cell phone, the glow of the screen momentarily blinding me. After a few tapings on the screen and a couple blinks, I realized I wasn’t receiving a call. That, and my ringtone wasn’t a jarring, frantic, sound. The only thing on my screen was the time, which was just past one in the morning. The ringing echoed through the apartment as if it could shake something loose. It was loud enough to yank my drowsiness away. Slipping myself away from under the covers, I flipped on the light from my phone. With how loud the ringing was, it had to be in this room, but where? Turning in place, my heart leaped at discovering something snaking out of the closet. Directing the light, a cord was plugged into the wall, the other end of it disappearing under the crack of the closet door. Before my irrational worries could stop me, I marched to the door and flung it open. Resting on the floor was a rotary phone, the yellow plastic a few degrees lighter than a mustard tone. The ringing pierced my ears with renewed energy, too disruptive compared to the si-

lent apartment. Kneeling, I picked up the handset only to drop it right back on its receiver. With the new silence, my mind raced to catch up with the questions springing from the haziness of sleep. My senses were also eager to crawl back into bed when the ringing commenced again. The sound caused my nerves to slam against each other, my feet slipping until I landed on my backside. Seriously? Things probably would have been different if I just unplugged the phone from the wall. It would have nipped everything right in the bud. But instead, I answered it. “Hello?” There was a moment of hesitation, no telling what kind of groggy voiced mess the caller just heard. I repeated myself, striving for more clarity. The voice crackled through the receiver. “You’re not the same person as before.” “Um, yeah. Are you trying to reach Mr. Fitz? I just moved into his old place, and I think he left his old phone behind. Do you need to pass a message?” A pause invaded us, the same kind that would occur if you said something unintentionally offensive. I don’t know how, but the disappointment was palpable through the plastic. “No.” Then the dial tone. I glanced back down at the phone, completely mystified. Okaaaay, not weird at all. Putting the phone back in its cradle, I had every intention of going back to sleep when I saw it. Something was pinned under the phone, a stark white corner poking out from under the device. I lifted the phone and retrieved the small piece of paper, the edges frayed as if it had been torn from a small notebook. Words were scrawled across the note in thin cursive. Calls will come at night. Please give them a chance and listen to what they have to say. It could help. –Henry Fitz

What the hell? Help who? Questions boiled and overflowed in my mind, pressing new worries into my lungs. The note indicated that this phone belonged to Mr. Fitz. Did he forget it? No, he wouldn’t have left this kind of note if he had forgotten it. What did he mean with this message? Hesitantly, I wandered back to the bed with the paper. After rereading it several times, I placed it on the nightstand. It took me longer than expected to fall back asleep.

“What’s with you today?” That question had never felt so relevant until today. What is with me? My two friends, Carl and Jodi, had asked me variations of that question since they arrived. How are you? Are you okay? You feeling alright? It doesn’t help that they saw me trip four times in the past hour, and my scrambled thoughts couldn’t hold a conversation. I wanted to answer their questions. The previous night sat on my tongue like a tight spring, taut and ready to fly out of my mouth. But I didn’t. How could I possibly start to share the story if I didn’t fully get it? I tried calling Mr. Fitz’s family to see if they could refer me to the retirement home he moved to. Or maybe so they could reclaim the phone. But they

didn’t answer. Not yet. Any other person would tell me to unplug the phone. It’s not really my business, and if the caller was trying to contact Mr. Fitz, then that’s further proof of this being beyond my obligation. And yet… “Elodie, what’s going on?” Carl asked, closing the kitchen cupboard he had just filled with plates and bowls. His lean form bent over the counter, trying to get a better look at me. He, or anyone really, rarely used my full name. It’s usually El. Short and simple. Now the full version felt heavy in my ears when someone used it.

Jodi and I finished shifting the couch, giving me the chance to wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans. “I just didn’t get a good sleep last night. Too lazy to make the bed, you know?” Jodi shrugged, strands of dark hair escaping from her bun. “Moving is pretty exhausting. I can’t even imagine how sore you are right now.” Carl raised an eyebrow, but I could see it already. The relaxing of the muscles around his hazel eyes, a relief growing into acceptance and contentment. He was letting it go, moving on. I don’t mind. If I had really wanted it, I could bring my concerns back later to him. It would no doubt reignite the worry and justification most people came up with regarding the duty of a friend.

Jodi spun in a circle, admiring our handiwork. “Well, I think you’re officially moved in, El! What on earth are you going to do without me as your roommate?” “Probably go out less. Watch more movies on the couch.”

“Oh, don’t forget,” she said, waving a finger at me. “I’ll still be coming to drag you out to things. I won’t let you revert to the shut-in you once were. I’ve worked too hard for that!” Jodi grinned at the amusement that overcame my face, both of us touching on the awkwardness we had started with. Jodi and I were roommates for almost three years, giving her ample time to drag me out of my shell. It wasn’t until living with Jodi that I actually figured out the different restaurants in town, which movie theater had the most comfortable seats, and the possible hideaways that would allow us to indulge in wild fun. I liked to think I taught her the value of a night in with cozy pajamas, clusters of snacks in hand, and the ease of marathoning movies and TV shows. We somehow complemented each other rather than letting the differences build a rift. Then came the point where Jodi wanted to move in with her boyfriend, who she met two years ago. We both realized each of us had to move somewhere else. We weren’t far from each other, so distance wouldn’t be a huge hinderance. Still, a part of me lingered on how much I would continue to see Jodi now that we didn’t live together. But my worries were quickly chased away when Carl and Jodi debated on a place to eat, leaving me as a tie-breaker. The rest of the day spiraled away into lunch, talking about work, and eventually parting ways to our separate homes. Any time I checked my phone, there was no sign of the call I wanted. I didn’t know how I fell asleep again, but eventually it happened. Dreams of

mishap and confusion layered into my awareness only to be shattered when the ringing started. It sprung my nerves awake, touched by the electricity of a new place and foreign noises. The noise was even more alarming since I moved the phone to my nightstand so I could put my shoes in the closet. My hand grasped the rotary phone, all with the intent to stop the noise. However, instinct drove the phone to my ear, a reflex most people would have when answering a call. “Hello?” “I really screwed up this time.” My hands tightened over the plastic, picking up on the pure desperation of the caller. “Who is this?”

A silence wedged itself in my ears, reminding me of the first call. To bury the question, I continued talking. “Why do you think you screwed up?” Any moment I expected the dial tone, but this woman seemed more inclined to give me a shot. The note just said to hear them out, right?

“I thought I could fix it. If I continued to work and tried to talk with my family, then things would get better. But…I-I couldn’t stop drinking. Then I got so angry…” I knew she was still talking, but the blubbery tears made it impossible to understand everything. Words like “fighting” and “divorce” bled through. I grabbed the blankets, balling them against my stomach. Why would this woman confess like this? Why tell me? She didn’t know me. When a break came, I reluctantly answered. “Have you tried getting professional help? For the drinking?” I heard something slam in the background, causing me to wince. The woman’s voice crackled through. “It won’t change my family hating me! What good will professional help do if the ones I love won’t take me back?” How should I know? “Um, well,” I started, hating how unsteady I felt. “You can’t be sure if you don’t even try. Plus, maybe your family also needs some time to heal.” The conversation continued, her panic and tears simmering down the more we traded. Her with memories and pain. Me with impromptu guidance. My advice felt cliché and utterly useless. She must’ve sensed it too. We eventually hung up after twenty minutes of rehashing arguments. When I put the phone down, I unplugged it for the rest of the night.

Another day passed, no message from Mr. Fitz’s family alerting my phone. Time raced until it blurred by, corrupted by the pitch of the caller from the previous night. How did all of this add up? Why do they call the rotary phone? Night returned, sunlight ebbing away faster than it ever did when I lived with Jodi. The first hour consisted of tossing and turning, unyielding silence closing in. The quiet rose like an unwanted itch, something you know you shouldn’t scratch but you couldn’t help but give in. I plugged the rotary phone back in.

The next caller was a male. Once tongue-tied beginnings were out of the

way, he got to the heart of his twisted thoughts. He wondered how long it would take for someone to find him if he were to die by accident, since he lived alone. A thunderous night brought a call from a girl who could have been a teenager. She couldn’t fall asleep for hours, and she wasn’t sure what part of her life was causing her such unease. An older woman called me close to four o’clock in the morning, lamenting about her lost husband and how she wished her children would call more. One who couldn’t stop an addiction. One who couldn’t ignore an obsession. Another who didn’t know what tomorrow was worth. Even when the calls ended, I was left with insistent whispers and dangling anxieties.

“Quit that!” Carl said, swatting at the air between us. “Every time you yawn it spreads to me.”

“Sorry,” I murmured, pulling more chips off the shelf for the reset. We’re supposed to take down all of the snack foods and replace them with a display of party size bags of candy for the new sale. “Are you still not getting any sleep? Are the neighbors noisy? You’re not withholding any fun drama, are you?” Carl asked.

The intercom overhead blared a song that was popular five years ago, the repetitive playlist for the store practically branded into my brain. Carl nudged me with his own bag of chips, forcing me to acknowledge him. “Not exactly,” I said, stretching onto my toes to reach the items clustered in the back. “I think it’s just the new environment and everything.” “Uh huh.” He tossed more bags into one of the shopping carts. Both of us work in the grocery store just a few miles from my new apartment. It was the option we found useful while we continued to apply for positions more closely related to our college studies. The squeaky wheel of a shopping cart against the scuffed white floor alerted us to the customer approaching.

“Could you tell me where the Q-tips are?” “Sure thing!” Carl answered, a smile brightening his face. “I’ll take you to them.” Armed with the happy-go-lucky attitude he always wore around customers, Carl led the woman away. I’ve always found it impressive that he could turn on a dime like that. No matter what mood he was in, he could evolve into the helpful employee in mere seconds. He even remembered to take the customer directly to the item every time. It was what the managers told us to do. I sometimes forgot that part. The shopper would have disappeared to the aisle number I supplied before I realized my mistake. Still, the guilt usually shriveled away quickly since I could refocus on my own work. Carl returned, scooting the cart closer to the shelves. “So,” he said. “I know you say you’re good, but why do I feel like that’s not true?” Because maybe it isn’t. The calls followed me everywhere I went.

Their words bled into my waking hours. It ate away at my insides, stealing my appetite, redirecting my focus. Was it possible to become a sin eater from conversations alone? While it wasn’t always a sin that was expressed over the phone, the pain was conveyed and passed to me, wasn’t it? What was I supposed to do with it? “El,” Carl said. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll be sure to tell you if I hear any drama from noisy neighbors.” How could I even begin to tell him the truth? There was no good way to explain it. But the longer I didn’t improve or give a good explanation, the more likely he wouldn’t believe my half-hearted excuses. That concern may evolve into something more urgent. “Okay,” Carl swiped the last few bags from the shelf. “Even if you don’t want to tell me, please just make sure you’re taking care of yourself.” I nodded. Take care of myself. When exactly did I stop doing that? I listened to the calls out of curiosity, to solve the reason for the phone’s existence, but those conversations have gotten me nowhere. What was the point of it then? I didn’t owe those strangers anything! My mind spiraled with new resolve, solidifying my tired muscles the rest of the way through my shift and the drive home. Coming into the apartment, I strode directly to the rotary phone. Yanking the cord from the wall, I picked up the device and dropped in next to the already full trash bin. The plastic and metal clanged together in discord. It would go out with the rest of the garbage. I didn’t need it! I paced the living room, still too elated from my burst of anger to calm down. It was in the flurry of my mind when I realized something. I never heard from Mr. Fitz’s family. My eyes snagged onto the yellow gleam of the phone, the mystery behind it practically whispering to me. No, I didn’t need it in my life. But I did deserve some answers! If Mr. Fitz’s family wasn’t going to answer me, then I would find the man myself! I sat down, opened my laptop, and searched for retirement homes in the area. The map showed three options. I picked up my cell and dialed the first number.

“Ah, so you’re the one who moved into my place?” Mr. Fitz’s brown eyes blinked against the sunlight; his slightly hunched form leaned back against the bench. The breeze was gentle, barely disturbing the stock of faded grey hair on his head. “Remind me of your name again.” I approached with another step, clinging to the strap of my purse. “Elodie Watson. You can just call me El.” “That’s a very pretty name, Elodie. You can sit down if you would like.” He patted the spot next to him. Nodding, I accepted the invitation. The wood was warm against my thighs, sun soaked and worn to a smooth texture. My mouth craved for water, but not so much because of the sunny day. Thankfully, I didn’t have to start us off. “I assume you are here about the phone.”

“Uh, yeah. Who are the people that call at night?” “I don’t know.” It was my turn to blink at him. “How could you not know?” I asked. “They’re dialing your number.” “Did any of them ever ask for me personally?” I shook my head, causing him to smile. “They may have the number, but they don’t have my name unless they asked for it. To be perfectly honest, it’s not even my number. The phone was there when I moved into the apartment six years ago. I kept it around for nostalgic reasons, but it wasn’t until later that I actually plugged it in and realized people still called the number.” “Did you track down the previous owner of the phone?” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. I have no idea who previously owned the phone or what they used it for.”

I leaned back against the bench, never taking my eyes off Mr. Fitz. His words sunk like heavy stones into the depths of my mind, leaving me to sift through the new information. “Okay, so you don’t know who they are or where the phone came from. Do you know why they call? Does it have something to do with your note and asking me to listen to them?” Something dampened in his demeanor. He looked toward the tree line bordering the property, the shades of green layered on top of one another until you couldn’t see beyond them. “When I lived in that apartment, I had insomnia. I would pace between the rooms, trying to occupy myself with reading or some other quiet activity. It was…the silence was sometimes unbearable. Soon it became the most dreadful part of my day. One night, the phone rang. The caller had been crying, explaining how his business went bankrupt. I have no idea what compelled him to call this number, but I didn’t want to stop talking to him either. We ended up talking for hours. It was only after he hung up that I realized I never got his name or how he got the number.

“The next night, a different call from a different person came. I let her talk about her grief for her child. I, well, I couldn’t bring myself to ask for the specifics for why she called. The truth was, I was lonely and wanted someone to talk to, even if it meant all we talked about was hardship.” Quiet fell over us when another resident walked by, giving us a nod in greeting. Once he was out of earshot, Mr. Fitz continued. “I was hoping that perhaps, if the phone still got calls when I was gone, then perhaps the next person could also listen to them.” “Why didn’t you take it with you?” I blurted. When he turned to me in concern, a flinch trembled through my shoulders. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I just…why leave the phone behind?” “It’s a good question, Elodie,” he said. “My children, though I love them dearly, decided to sort through things I would actually need when coming here. An old rotary phone didn’t make the cut. Plus, I don’t have the right kind of jack to make the phone work here. I tucked it in the bedroom closet and plugged it

back in when I got the chance. I didn’t know what would happen from there, but I thought a new perspective could help those people in ways I can’t.” “What perspective?” I asked, standing up to pace in front of the bench. “I’m not like you. I haven’t lived through most of my life, gained some uncharted wisdom I can share with other people. I just finished college and I still don’t know what to do with the education I paid thousands of dollars for! And that phone is driving me crazy! What am I supposed to do with the information people hand me? Sensitive information! What makes you think I can help?” “You still have it don’t you. The phone.” It wasn’t a question. And he was right. It still sat next to the trash. “If you really wanted to throw it away, you would have unplugged it after the first night. You would have tossed it. You wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble to track down an old geezer in a retirement home to talk about the phone if you didn’t care. Am I wrong?” My pulse, which had previously escalated, now echoed within my bones. It slowed the wild panic that wanted to claw out of my skin. My legs began to wobble like noodles, so I sat back down. After a deep pull of air, my voice croaked out. “How did you help them? What did you tell them to make things better?” Mr. Fitz, who had been staring at the lines of his palms like a script, returned his focus to me. “It depended on the person. Most of the time, though, they just needed someone to talk to. Someone to listen. You aren’t there to solve their problems for them. That’s something we shouldn’t have to do for another person. Sometimes just some acknowledgment that something is hard is enough. “It’s up to you, you know. Throw it away, let it collect dust. Hell, you can even decide to plug it in some random nights and not others. It won’t bother me either way. It’s officially yours now. Oh, and if you haven’t noticed, you’ll never get a phone bill. I never got one in the years I used it.” We continued talking for another hour, sweat beaded down my neck and back as the afternoon sun hit its full power. Eventually we had to stop. Soon we weren’t sure where to go next. As I headed out, he told me to not hesitate coming back to visit with him. It’s an offer I made sure to review over and over until it was locked in my mind.

The ringing wakes me up again, but this time I don’t hesitate to pick it up. “Hello?” “Hey.” A hesitant voice spills through the piece. “is this the same girl I talked to before?” “Yeah, it’s me.” The rigidness that had locked up my back eases. “Are you okay?” “Oh, yeah! I, uh, accidentally dropped my phone and the call disconnected. I was too embarrassed to call back right away.”

“It’s fine. It happens.”

The weight of his words from the first part of the call returns, pressing around my body as if my lungs were underwater. We are quickly approaching the

hardest part. I have no solution. No perfect method. His breathing labors through the receiver, setting my own stomach through barbed wire nerves. “It’s playing on loop, the constant criticism. The horrible analysis of my mistakes and whether I should have done something different. And I can’t change it! That’s the worst part!”

Many will think it’s idiotic for me to keep a rotary phone that will wake me up all hours of the night. Even though I only plug it in every few days now, some wouldn’t even bother. But I can’t help but wonder…Would I be considered as something even worse than an insensitive stranger if I cut off those callers entirely? These voices have no other soul they feel will actually hear their desperate, wild protests. Their quiet anxieties slowly eat them alive. “Are you still there?” he asks. “Yeah, I’m here.” Propping the pillows against the bedframe, I lift my upper

half.

“I just don’t know what to do from here.” Neither do I. “We can talk more. And as far as tomorrow, all you can ask yourself to do is handle one thing at a time. And I think right now that moment should be the one you’re living.” “Just take it one day at a time, right? Sounds like a movie.” “Well, if we are in a movie, that means the two of us are supposed to be somewhat interesting people.” An unfiltered laugh pops through the receiver, causing me to gasp in my own amusement. “Sorry,” I say. “I don’t know where that came from!”

His laughter dies down, followed by a sniffle. “No, it’s okay! That’s the first time I’ve laughed in a while.” I cup a hand over my lips, as if I can somehow press the smile to stay put a little bit longer. “Is it still raining a lot down there?” “Yeah, but it isn’t as loud anymore.” I don’t know what time we stop talking. We talk until both of us fade into exhaustion. Pale morning light seeps through my window, announcing the day with a simple nudge. Routine blends within the everyday occurrences. But everything, somehow, is lighter.

The Calls Made at Night by Rachel Bieker The Calls Made at Night by Rachel Bieker The Calls Made at Night by Rachel BiekerThe Calls Made at Night by Rachel BiekerThe Calls Made at Night by Rachel Bieker The Calls Made at Night by Rachel Bieker The Calls Made at Night by Rachel Bieker The Calls Made at Night by Rachel Bieker

The Tune of My Father’s Life Grandfatherly Love The Reservoir The Tune of My Father’s Life Grandfatherly Love The Reservoir

Grandfatherly Love The Reservoir

The Tune of My Father’s Life The Tune of My Father’s Life Grandfatherly Love The Reservoir

Nonfiction

The Tune of My Father’s Life....90 Grandfatherly Love..............94 The Reservoir...................97

The Tune of My Father’s LifeGrandfatherly Love The Reservoir The Tune of My Father’s Life

The Tune of My Father’s Life

By Katie Robey

I won’t forget the first time I heard Bob Dylan’s voice on the radio. In my family’s garage, coming from a black box radio on a shelf. Growing up, I had a healthy nourishment of songs from the folk era of the 1960s, an era of protest and devastation, an era of change and a new generation of youth striving for something older generations had failed to reach. I resonate with the sounds and lyrics unlike any music today or of recent decades. My father holds these same sentiments, and we enjoy listening, together, to vinyl records I have found in old record stores. If it wasn’t for the day I discovered Bob Dylan, though, I wouldn’t have cultivated a love of music or realized the power it can convey with words and emotion. I was nine years old, and it was a hot June day in Iowa. Going outside to our garage, I had been told by my mother to find my father and tell him some household duty or version of work needed to be done. That garage still holds the smell of pine and oak wood, a garage which never held so much as a car but held boxes of nails and screws, armies of wooden beams that awaited construction and commanding precision from my father’s rough hands. Tools hanging on the wall like signs hung on the windows of old convenience stores. Cabinets in the making, standing still among other works. Everything is still in its place just as it was ten years ago. Sawdust litters the floor like forgotten scraps of work left to die out and be forgotten. As younger children, my brother and I would sweep those scraps of shaved wood for praise from our father. A sentimental memory which is not lost upon me. I walked in and there my father was, standing in front of a shelf, leaning against one of his worktables. I closed the door. I walked in but he told me to stay where I was and turned the volume up on the big black box radio. Entering my father’s garage, it was common that we would hear some music playing, and he would always tell us which singer or band it was. It would usually be a song he loved or something he had not heard in a long while. This voice was different from the others. It sounded distinct. All I could hear was a barman’s voice through that speaker emitting a faint crackle. Some presence singing about someone who “don’t talk so loud” and having to “be scrounging your next meal.” I thought the voice had a rough coaxing sound, off-key, rogue, and disturbing-

ly filled with the emotional appeal of street life and song mastery. The song was not sung well by any means. I still have no intentions of calling Bob Dylan a fine, well-tuned singer, but he spoke to me about the soul of identity, pain, and the future. At that moment my father asked me, “Do you know who that is?” I shook my head no. I wanted to know more, though. Was this singer’s truth something I could find more of? How was someone of such rough harmony singing on the radio? “No, who is it?” I questioned. “I think his voice sounds kind of funny.”

“Well, that’s Bob Dylan. One of America’s finest songwriters,” he replied, not looking at me but at the radio. We continued to stand there, like two people who didn’t know each other well but were comfortable in one another’s’ presence. He didn’t say much else except I knew he was hoping he could pass something on to me. It struck me. My father was never a man who spoke much of himself. While I knew he loved us deeply, with the love of a father for his children, wordy endearments and soft emotions were never a prominent part of growing up. Living with three brothers, I was taught independence and to let life come as it would. I’m thankful I embraced these lessons. They carried me into my adulthood. Bob Dylan conveyed this through many of his songs I would find a passion for. I discovered a piece of my father there within this song and voice, something that he wanted me to recognize. This type of affection was more meaningful than the hugs and words of affirmation I had heard other fathers give their children at school. I wanted to know him more deeply, as an individual, and I felt that his gift of Bob Dylan’s artistry could help me to discover who he was as a person and as a father. A few years later, when I was fourteen, I was driving with him in his old red truck and Bob Dylan came on the radio. When he asked if I knew who it was, this time I could answer.

My father’s music would continue to influence me. I picked up on many other artists and found the sweet lilting voice of James Taylor, the strength of Bob Seger, and the country soul of Johnny Cash. John Denver would always be one my favorites. There were Saturday mornings when it was just me and my younger brother in the house, and I can remember hearing the music on our living room stereo finding its way to my bedroom. The music would drift down our hallway and call me out of sleep, along with the smell of freshly brewed coffee that accompanied those sweet mornings. It was always in those mornings I could hear John Denver singing “In the Grand Way” or “Rocky Mountain High.” I would come out and sit in front of our stereo set, listening to a sweet melody of the rich beauty and grace of the earth. It called to me in the way Bob Dylan’s voice did, where I wanted to soak in every verse and song, but John Denver sang sweetly and praised the earth we walked upon unlike any person I thought could ever do. That voice was filled with light and a knowing mind of the universe we live in. It called to the mountains and made me want to explore the vast cliffsides, rough terrain, and valleys of America, as though I could reach out and grab a firm stone or walk along the banks of the Colorado River. I eventually would walk alongside

the banks of the Colorado River when I was 16, its immense strength bursting with turbulent, rushed sounds, and I can remember, as I took a step forward closer to our destination, the words of Denver on that long-ago Saturday morning. The soft voice saying, “Mountain rivers, … put my mind at ease.”

My first guitar was my father’s idea. A graduation gift. Our family rarely exchanged gifts, and my father was never a man of many surprises. I was shocked when in the summer of 2020 I took a car trip with him and my mother to a music store. I didn’t know where we were going, but when we arrived my father went to the cashier and asked if we could be shown the way to the acoustic guitars. My father told me then that his biggest regret in life was never learning the guitar, but hopefully I could live up to his astray dream that so many adults tend to have. He had seen my love for music grow and it was possible he noticed I had a deep-rooted passion that others may have overlooked. To be honest, I was embarrassed to share I enjoyed older music with people my age. I wasn’t sure people would understand that the music isn’t outdated or its fame faded and fleeting. I was afraid my older styles clashed with my own era. My father wanted me to convey this older art to others, to show courage in my passions, and perhaps this guitar would begin my long journey of opening up and sharing my story. To share the poetry of his generation and youth. As I sat on the stool waiting, we were both eager for this moment. He watched as I was handed an acoustic guitar. I was taught by the worker how to play a D chord. I placed my fingers carefully on the sleek wooden neck of this fine instrument and strummed the top four strings. The sound that resonated from this instrument was deep and bold. Caressing the hard-wooden surface, the guitar’s smooth curves fit well on my lap; everything seeming to fit perfectly as I sat there. It was as though I was transported to a serene moment, set far apart from that store. A memory of listening to the great guitarists with my father on a summer day. The lilting melody ringing out with an embrace of sweet song and meaning. Another piece of himself that he gave to me and I was again eager to take. I would live up to my word to learn to play and would diligently practice as much as I could. He was there when I learned my first song, Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth.” A simple chord progression consisting of E, D, and A. A song we both agreed resonates well with the times despite its enduring age of over 50 years. Perhaps it was possible to show that songs don’t lose their eternity, I still listen to that rough voice of Bob Dylan, remembering that Midwest summer day, and I have listened to about every album he has made. I can still hear the human emotions and desires in every tune and have discovered new meanings of the world and my own family. In “Blowin’ in the Wind” I learned about the emotional answers for the humanity that we continue to seek. In “The Times They Are A-Changin’” I learned about a new dawn of ideas. In “Desolation Row” I learned how it feels to be an outcast. I am still drawn in every time I listen. I find new meanings in the songs and in the world. Relationships take on new meanings. Especially the relationship between me and my father. It feels set apart

somehow from other relationships I have seen children have with their fathers. He loved me dearly, and still does, but his quiet character is seen through the music I listen to and the bond we share over told stories from the simple workings of a guitar. When I look at my callused fingers, imprinted by the steel stings of my guitar, I think of my father’s rough hands. This same person who would share his deep-set emotions through his love of music passed down to me. It’s not complicated. It is simply the divine work music performs on our souls. Simple. It is the tune of my father’s life. What I hope to become mine someday.

Grandfatherly Love

By Macie Bopp

My grandpa sat in his recliner. The chair was probably once bright red with a functioning footrest but now the red was a sun-faded pink. The lever commanding the footrest was propped against the wall, so the chair stayed in its reclined position. My grandfather always sat in his chair when we were leaving. He waited for us to knot up our shoes signaling that we were ready to say goodbye. This was our ritual. Every day when my mom came to pick my siblings and me up, he sat waiting for a hug goodbye. My shoes now tied, and toys gathered, I ran over to him. I climbed up onto his lap and threw my arms around him. “I just love you kids,” he’d say every day. Whether it was with his trademark phrase of I just love you or with small gifts he’d pick up while on the road, he always showed us how much he loved us. Even when my grandpa was sick, he wanted to spoil us. I’d reach over the side table to press the call button on his hospital bedside remote and relay his lunch order. While I chatted with the nursing staff my grandpa constantly asked me if I wanted anything and added it to his order. He would offer his food to me once it arrived and all throughout his meal. He was a caretaker, had been for years, and he relished the moments when he could provide for his family. To me, my grandpa was my biggest fan. Although he was never able to come watch one of my meets, he bought several copies of newspapers and asked my grandmother to cut out every article and picture of me from them. On occasion, when I was interviewed by local radio stations he’d listen to the segment every time it aired. Not once, not twice but all three times that my shaky voice came on the air. No matter how painful the interview was or how I placed in the race, I could always count on my grandfather to tell me how amazing I was. To him I was the fastest, smartest, strongest, and happiest person he had ever met. We used to sit on the farmhouse porch, the faint smell of hogs the barn housed long ago still prominent in the air. The distant howls of cars from the interstate miles off added some white noise to the silence of the country. Sitting on the side of the house most vulnerable to the wind, we let the breeze propel the porch swing back and forth. We did not talk much there. Neither of us were big talkers. We would sit and enjoy ourselves. Enjoying each other’s company. I’d smile at nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just smiling at the fact of being perfectly happy there. “You know, Macie.” He always called me by my name. Not many people call me by my name. “I can always tell if you’re truly happy or not,” he would say,

“cause when you are, you smile with your whole face.” That was his way of telling me that my eyes almost closed when I smiled. A trait that annoyed my mother. I could never keep my eyes open for a picture, not if you want me to smile. At least not if you wanted a genuine smile. Eyes squinted and head tilted up my lips stretched in a big goofy grin. This was, and is, my truly happy face. My grandfather just always found ways of making the smallest parts of me feel special. I knew my grandpa as both healthy and sick. Luckily for me, most of my memories are of him in good health. However, sometime before I was born, he fought colon cancer. The entire time I’ve known him he’s had a colostomy bag. This barely affected him. He still hauled gluten across Iowa and Missouri. He still worked on the farm and helped the Amish with special deliveries in Kalona. Even when he was sick, his life moved on. He did not believe in doctors. So, when he fell ill my mom forced him to see one. My mom considered my grandpa, her father-in-law, her own father. He had always given her more support than her father or stepfather ever had. She was also the only person able to get him to see a doctor. She knew how to talk him into anything and even as stubborn as he was, he always, eventually, did what she said. He visited many doctors before we knew what was wrong. The following month, my family noticed that my grandfather was not getting the care he needed at home. My parents decided it would be best for him to move to the care center in our town. This was both simultaneously the worst and best thing that had ever happened to me. My grandfather was closer to us and I saw him every day, but at the same time my grandfather had changed. He wasn’t the grandpa I had always known him to be. He was weak now, unable to manage simple tasks. Nothing like the busy truck driver and farmer I once knew. He struggled to tell his stories and towards the end began to make up new ones. He told of experiences that never happened. Hallucinations the doctors called them. He could not listen to my last radio interview and it aired all three times without him ever hearing it. What hurt the most, though, was the day he forgot my name. All three of us kids sat in his cramped hospital room. My sister and I squeezed together in his recliner, a new, leather, functioning recliner at the foot of his bed. My brother sat in the wheelchair he now had to use to move to the dining hall. We were watching M.A.S.H. for an hour before he started talking to us. Even now he still wanted to have those blissful moments of silence. “Is Macie planning on seeing me today?” he said, looking directly at me. “Tell her to see me soon.” My heart sank. That day I left his room in tears. I wanted to be with him, but I wasn’t sure if being there would even make a difference. He would not know I was there. Two days later, he passed. His cancer returned in full force. Attacking in his bone marrow and blood.

My grandpa was eighty-seven when he passed. He lived a long life. He was able to experience and live through so much. His days as a trucker allowed him

to travel and meet people. My grandpa taught me so much about life. First, he taught me to let the people you love know just how much they mean to you. He taught me to be okay with silence and just enjoy others’ company. My grandfather taught me to push through the hard times and work your hardest in sickness and health. Lastly, my grandpa taught me that I have everything I need to be successful. To him I was strong, quick, smart, cheerful, and beyond capable of anything I wanted to accomplish. At his funeral, I did my best to show him I was still all those things and more. So, I stood up in front of the entire Catholic church. I did my best to climb the wooden stairs as quietly as I could in heels. I looked out into the sea of black and sobbed. My mother had to rescue me and read my lines. I sat down feeling so defeated. I sat in the pews and only focused on how I failed to be the person my grandfather thought I was. I was not strong, and I was not even capable of reading the verses to the crowd. Without me noticing, my grandmother came up to me and laid her hands on my knees. “Thank you so much for going up there. I know it was hard,” she said softly. “Thank you for showing everyone just how much you loved your grandpa.” The last lesson my grandfather taught me was that no one, no one ever, will love me the same way my grandfather did.

The Reservoir

By Jordyn Wilson

I was very young when my parents first began taking me to the reservoir. Typically, a small-town reservoir isn’t the setting a child would love, however it was nothing less than magical to me. I sat in the car, staring out the window as fields of vibrant green and honey flashed before my eyes. You would’ve sworn I was told we were on our way to Disneyland by the excitement heard within my high-pitched voice as I continually asked my parents, “Are we there yet?”

As we pulled off of the highway onto a narrow gravel road, we were canopied by trees. My creative instincts kicked in, and like most children do, I began creating an entire world in my mind. The trees gaped open, revealing a twinkling body of water. To me, this was the ocean just outside my small town. We pulled into a parking lot that connected the reservoir to the golf course where my parents were members. On this small course stood an abandoned and withered shelter whose paint had slowly lost its color as had my grandmother’s hair. I never had a playhouse growing up, but this crumbling building gave me a place to let my imagination run free like a stampede of wild horses. Throughout my summers, this is where I created my own little world. As time went on, Lakeside Reservoir became my family’s place. We were regulars at the campsite, always reserving the spot furthest from the crowd. Our mobile “home away from home” was always closest to the mulberry bush. I spent far too many nights crying over stomach aches from stuffing myself with the purple berries until my fingers were a dark shade of violet. My parents’ friends all had sons, making my sister and me the only girls in attendance. My dad had always dreamed of having a son, but summers at the reservoir eventually ensured him that he wasn’t missing out on anything by being a girl dad. We grew up alongside these wild, hooligan boys where we were taught to keep quiet as we cast a thin line out into the murky water; if you’re quiet you have better luck, they would tell us. Did I obey these requests? No, what kid would? I could sense I annoyed my father with my constant complaint of the pinprick bites I received from mosquitos, but neither of us would trade those moments for others. I continued to sit on the ledge of the dam with him, patiently waiting, and loving every minute of it.

Every summer, the reservoir offered up a new memory. The summer before my first year of high school, my parents decided to move. It wasn’t far, but it was

enough. We moved to Humeston, where my home was now only three minutes from the reservoir. By this time, we very rarely visited the place. Convinced I was too old to be running around at night, playing hide-and-go-seek in the dark, fishing with the boys, or racing golf carts, I refused to go even on the rare occasions my parents did visit the place. Flash forward to the end of my freshman year, the place seemed to creep its way back into my daily life once again. The reservoir became a place of many firsts, lasts, and everlasting memories. I was the new kid, at a new school, in a new town, and it had already been a hell of a year. Despite this, I found myself at the reservoir, in a dress that flowered like Chocolate Queen Anne’s Lace, as I awaited my first prom, taking pictures with the only boy who wasn’t embarrassed to speak to me. I had spent so much time at the reservoir as a child, but in this moment, with glimmering eyelids and heels I could barely walk in, I spent my first moments at the reservoir where I finally felt like I was a woman.

I began making frequent trips to my water wonderland. At first, I would pack up my father’s fishing tackle into my little Nissan and sit in silence hoping for an ounce of luck. As time went on, and I remained unsuccessful, my trips began to be more observant. On summer nights, I would get off work at seven, sometimes eight, and race out of town to get to my spot. I would drive along the long, narrow, winding road, past the campsites and playground, and towards a small roundabout as far away from the golf course as I could get. Scared to miss a single second, I’d throw open the back door, climb into the back seat, and watch in silence as the colors of the sky melted down into the water. Warm vermillion, canary, and crimson cascaded into the deep waters of rich violet and cobalt blue. The scene reminded me of my mother’s art; mixed paints spilt onto a canvas. Every swirl, unique. Every sunset, unrepeatable. I have never been good in silence. My mind begins to race like a train grinding against the tracks past my grandmother’s home. The silence makes the voices in my head scream like they are trying to escape. But the silence here is different. Here, I sit alone, content in my own company, with only the sounds of nature keeping me sane. I don’t have to pretend, I don’t have to entertain, I can simply be. The most desirable night to visit is when the wind blows the cattails ever so slightly while the frogs croak into the darkness. My hair flutters in front of my eyes, but I dare not move to adjust it. A single movement could break the peace. Lakeside became my escape. If high school taught me anything it was that my community was full of cold, bitter people. This may sound like a stereotypical view of small-town life, but some stereotypes prove true. There were eleven in my class, all of whom were related, dating, or both. Yeah, you heard that right. Moving into this class, I was instantly the outcast, which resulted in many conflicts between the entitled classmates and me. I began going to the reservoir to release my frustrations. Like the time I got hit in the temple in front of my entire science class, sending television static through my eyes. Or when the basketball coach yelled in my face until spit landed on my tear-covered cheeks because my retire-

ment from the sport meant the team ceased to exist; they didn’t have enough players. I spent entire days waiting to rush back to the reservoir, the only place I could cast away my troubles. There was something about the way the dust gathered in the air behind my car like a storm cloud that made me feel like I had vanished in a magician’s cloud of smoke. My mom grew a hatred for the reservoir. Today she understands, but in the beginning, she hated the way I used this place as my confidant, but I’ve never been good with words and this place didn’t ask me to speak any. It knew all of my secrets. When my mind failed me and I couldn’t remember if what had happened was a bone-shaking nightmare, or if I needed to speak up, the reservoir seemed to stitch together my memories, like the baby blanket my father passed down to me . . . barely held together. It was there waiting for me when the case closed, and I needed to be alone. It didn’t ask me, “Are you okay,” and I didn’t have to tell it I wasn’t. I was always alone; the idea of being someone else’s never intrigued me, but I let myself become dependent on another my junior year. For what reason? I’m unsure. I became every girl that I felt sorry for. I bullshitted excuses for why he acted the way he did, much like the excuses I summoned to avoid giving a speech during class. I spent ten months spending long, cold nights alone at the reservoir after he promised to see me. I’m easy to please and was far too forgiving at the time, so with a simple text saying sorry, I put a smile back on my face. Despite my pushoverness, the reservoir had taught me to notice every single detail in each thing I saw. So yes, even though I would never say a word, I saw the “hidden photos” tab on your phone grow like the fire in my stomach. I saw you messaging her after you forced me to delete every boy’s number from my phone, swearing to do the same. I curled my sister’s hair and watched a strand fall like a long chocolate shaving, as I caught a glimpse of the message you sent her. I spent a lot of time pretending because the good times together seemed to make up for the bad; that’s what they all say right? But as time went on, and the nights at the reservoir got colder, it didn’t seem worth it. I did it that night. October 1st. I begged you to come to my favorite place in the world. Instead I freed myself of the constant jealousy, low self-esteem, and anger in my favorite place. My voice filled the car, like the smell of gas coming from the leak in my fuel line. I normally came here to avoid conversation, so my voice felt out of place. But in that moment, the only thing keeping my voice steady was being here. After the breakup, my trips to the reservoir have only been grand memories. My mother no longer hates the place, nor does she ask why I spend so much time alone. She understood. Instead, around 6 o’clock every night she would open the blinds, and yell, “You’re missing it!” And once again, I’d throw on my mudstained Adidas and run out to my car. She’d roar like a lion as I turned the key, and I’d be out of the driveway in seconds. It felt like high school lasted an entire century. I never understood when people claimed, “it went by too fast”; they must not have had anywhere better to

go. I begged my mother not to have a graduation party, as I didn’t enjoy the company of the people in my town, nor did I like the attention focused on me. But I realized very quickly there was no use in putting up a fight. Instead, we settled on having the party at the reservoir, in the tiny clubhouse I used to play in as a child. We filled my favorite place with my favorite colors, favorite foods, and my favorite people. This was the first time I was able to spend time with both sides of my family. My parents both came from divorced families, so I had never been in the presence of my Grandma Linda and Grandpa Chick, or my Grandma Jill and Grandpa Grover in the same space. At one point, I became overwhelmed with emotions when I realized how much I loved everything about this scene. I wish I had captured it, a small polaroid, the picture-perfect image of everything I loved in one place.

August 19, 2018 I said goodbye to the reservoir. I waited until an hour before to cram all my belongings into clear totes. I frantically packed away my favorite belongings: my grey Ohio State hoodie that had frayed along the cuff, my stuffed-animal dog named Peaches I received when I was five years old, and the locket my dad gave my mom when he was my age, which held their prom picture clasped tightly inside. I was only moving forty-five minutes from home, but you’d think I was moving across the country. It wasn’t until this day that I realized how much of a homebody I was. No matter how much I hated that town, or the people in it, it was still where my family was and the thought of not being with them every day scared me to death. My parents got into the truck while my sister and I loaded into my car. We followed them down the rose-colored highway that trails out of Humeston, but as we approached the Lakeside Park sign, without even thinking, I turned onto that familiar gravel road. I pulled into my spot, where my tire had finally left its print in the dirt, and sat for just a moment. I took a few deep breaths, stared out at the water, and watched the trees sway like they were dancing along to Janis Joplin on the radio. I had relied on this place for so long to help me through tough times, but in this moment I recognized that it had simply given me the courage and space to help myself. For that, I was eternally grateful. I put Barbra Jean in drive, and pulled away while the wind blew my hair, content with where that gravel road had taken me.

The Tune of My Father’s LifeGrandfatherly Love of My Father’s Life Grandfatherly Love The Reservoir The Reservoir

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